What John Did
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Based on a prompt and some excellent research from HOS70. Sherlock takes an opportunity to learn about John's time in the army.
1. Chapter 1

**The prompt for this story came a couple of weeks ago from HOS70, who initially suggested that it might be a Sick Fic chapter. To my mind, it didn't really fit there, but I really liked the idea, so I considered it for Many Loves, but it didn't work there either. Eventually, I asked her if she'd mind me using it for a multi-chapter story. Because I'm lazy, I asked if she'd write it with me, and rather unfairly divided the labour so that I'd do most of the writing part, and she'd do all of the research. Fortunately, she agreed. If you enjoy this story, please review it. If you really like it, and if you appreciate the detail that I was given to work with, you should feel free to thank her for her time and dedication. This story wouldn't have happened without her!**

**I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

John walked into the kitchen, dropped his keys on the table, and made a bee-line for the kettle.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock stalked into the kitchen.

"You blade-shaved this morning, which you only do when you're going out, and I mean, somewhere unusual with someone who isn't Lestrade, Mike or Me. We could assume you have a date, but you have black shoe-polish on your wrist. You wear your brown shoes for dates, because you have absolutely no sense of style, and you only wear your black shoes for formal occasions, by which I mean weddings, funerals or court appearances. You're not going to a wedding or a funeral because if you were, you wouldn't have shut up about it, and you're not due in court, because Mycroft would have told me even if you had managed to keep it from me. So I'll ask you again; where are you going?"

John stared at him.

"OK," he said.

Sherlock frowned.

"OK?"

"Yes. OK." John shook his head and made himself a cup of tea. "Do you want one of these?"

"Yes, please. Why are you trying to keep it from me?"

"I'm not, I'm just bemused." He handed Sherlock a cup of tea. "Sherlock, when I said 'sorry?' I didn't mean 'sorry, but why are you asking me such a strange question?' I meant 'sorry, I didn't hear you over the noise of the kettle, can you repeat yourself'."

"Oh."

"Yes." John sat down at the table. "You don't need to do the minute analysis on me all the time. You could just ask normally, and I'll answer normally."

"I did ask you normally."

"And I didn't hear you, so you'll have to ask normally again."

"Fine." Sherlock waited patiently as John drank some of his tea.

John then examined his nails for a moment.

"So where are you going?" Sherlock snapped. "Actually, never mind, I don't want to know anyway. This is all tedious and absurd." He picked up his tea and stalked off into the living room.

John smiled and shook his head, and he went up to his room. He relaxed on his bed and waited for less than seven minutes.

Sherlock barged in, carrying John's laptop and wearing a scowl.

"Why did you change your email password?" he demanded.

"It was entirely for my own amusement."

Sherlock sat down at John's desk. He shoved the various bits of paperwork to the floor so he could put the laptop down. Some of them fell into John's waste paper basket.

"Do you mind?" John asked.

"No. There was nothing important."

"How do you know?"

"Because it was all yours. Now what did you change your password to?"

"It's against security regulations to share your password with someone."

"Fine, don't tell me then."

Sherlock gazed out of the window for a moment, and then tapped several keys on the keyboard. The laptop beeped at him impatiently, and he scowled.

"Your password hint is; 'Sherlock you'll never get this!' That's extremely juvenile. Also, you underestimate me."

He looked out of the window again, and his face took on the placid, calm look that it got whenever Sherlock was entering his mind-palace. He smiled, tapped the keyboard again and got another beep.

"I give up!" he yelled. "Tell me what it is!"

John smiled.

"You should know what it is, Sherlock. You know _everything._" Sherlock turned to him with a snarl, and John grinned. "What is it that you always tell me about password security? The best way is to choose a string of inconsequential numbers."

"But you haven't done that! You'd never remember a string of inconsequential numbers!"

"No, but what's a string of memorable numbers to me, might well be inconsequential numbers to someone else."

"Oh!" Sherlock tapped at the keyboard again and got another beep. "You didn't use your mobile number!"

"No; my mobile number isn't a string of inconsequential numbers. It's my mobile number."

"This is incredibly annoying!"

"Not for me!" John grinned happily.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Three reasons. One, yesterday there was a small tub of human kidneys in the fridge, and it's not there today. Two, _you_ underestimate _me_, and I liked the idea of demonstrating that to you. And three, the idea entertained me thoroughly."

"What have the kidneys got to do with this?"

"They're not there anymore. Yesterday you completed an experiment that you'd been working on for three weeks. We haven't had a case in a month, and you're clearly desperate because you took on that cat-burglar thing for Lestrade, so you're about to get…?"

"Bored! Oh, very good, John! _Very_ good!"

"I thought so."

Sherlock grinned at him.

"So are you going to tell me what your password is? I'd try to work it out, but I have no starting point. Your grubby little hands have messed the keyboard up, so there are no clues. It does look as though it contains at least one 0, but I can't tell."

"Hand it over, close your eyes and turn your back."

"Why do I need to close my eyes if I'm turning my back?"

"Because I said so."

Sherlock huffed, but he handed the laptop to John and turned his back. John typed in the telephone number to the house he had lived in until he was twelve. The email application opened, and he put it back on his desk. He settled back down on the bed and picked up his book.

Sherlock turned and started scrolling through emails.

"There's nothing here!" he said eventually.

"Isn't there?"

Sherlock looked again.

"No! There isn't! You've emptied the trash folder recently. Oh, this could take me a few hours to hack into! Thank you, John!"

"Yep. The thing is, though, the email is a bit of red-herring."

"What?"

"I'll give you a clue, Sherlock. The answer you seek is somewhere in this room."

"I hate clues."

"No you don't, you love clues."

"I do love clues, but that clue was rubbish. It wasn't even grammatically sound."

"Fine. It makes no difference to me whether you look for it or not." He went back to his book.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then glanced idly around the room. He stood up and walked to John's bookshelves and looked for tell tale disturbances. There was some evidence that a book had recently been taken from the second shelf, but, as John was currently reading it, that didn't tell Sherlock much. He wandered to the chest of drawers, and looked through John's fairly small amount of toiletries. There was nothing interesting there. He rifled through the CDs that had been left next to the stereo, but that merely confirmed that John's taste in music was seriously flawed.

He opened the wardrobe and smiled.

"You've tried your uniform on recently! You haven't put it back properly! Oh, John, it's like you're not even trying!"

"So where am I going then?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"Wedding and funeral are still out. Although it could be a wedding if it was somebody senior whom you didn't know that well…. No, forget that, you'd just cry off." He frowned. "You're not being Court Marshalled are you?"

John laughed. "Court Marshalled? For what?"

"I wasn't sure whether giving out your name, rank and regiment that time might have come back to bite you."

"Oh, that. No."

"What is it then?"

"Sherlock, nothing I do is important. Nothing in my life, or indeed this room, is important at all." He got up with his book, and as he left the room, he heard Sherlock start rummaging through his bin. He grinned and went to wait on the sofa.

Sherlock wasn't long. He came in holding a small piece of paper aloft, and looking smug.

"The Joint Services Committee and the Wounded and Disabled Servicemen Association request the pleasure of the company of Captain John Watson for the first annual disabled armed services boat race!" He grinned. "Why are you dressing formally for a boat race?"

"Because the invitation, if you'd bothered to read beyond the first few lines, is for an evening dinner and honour ceremony, which will be formal."

"Oh."

"Plus, I know some of the guys in the boats, and they're doing a really good thing, and I'll dress formally out of respect for them."

"Oh." Sherlock watched him read for a while. "You're very strange."

"Yes. And quaint. I know your feelings about it all, thank you very much."

"Huh." Sherlock sat down on his armchair and looked at the invitation again. He glanced at John. "It says here that you can bring a guest."

"It does, yes."

"Are you taking a guest?"

"I optimistically RSVP'd for two people."

"But then Emily dumped you."

"Yes." He turned his page. "I thought I might ask Mrs Hudson."

"She can't go."

"Why?"

"She just can't. She hates that sort of thing. All manner of terrible things have happened to her at formal, military dinners."

"Right."

"I'm free. I'm just saying."

John put down his book and looked at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Free food is free food."

John continued looking at him.

"I don't know what you're worried about," Sherlock said. "People wouldn't jump to any conclusions, and even if they did, they wouldn't be able to utter them because of that thing, that don't ask don't tell thing. So you'll be fine."

"Don't ask don't tell is American, Sherlock. And I'm actually not bothered about that at all. Most of my friends are pleasingly unconcerned with such things."

"So why can't I come?"

"I never said you couldn't."

"So I can come?"

"You'll have to wear a tie."

"I don't own a tie."

"You can borrow one of mine."

"I'll go and buy one right now."

John grinned as Sherlock leapt up, grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs. John smiled to himself and went back to his book. It wasn't for long though, as Mrs Hudson came in.

"Sherlock seems busy!" she said. "He ran straight past me without even looking!"

"Yep. Mrs Hudson," John stood up and stretched. "I have successfully prevented any ridiculous, dangerous or damaging stunts for, well, I reckon about sixteen hours!"

"Oh! Well done you!"

"Yes. It may have come at extreme personal cost, and it's a hard sacrifice to make." He put his hands gently on Mrs Hudson's shoulders. "Mrs Hudson, I'm going to take him out to meet my Army friends."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock glanced across at John as they sat side by side in the back of the cab. He'd been surprised at how different John looked and behaved in his formal uniform. John had always had the air of a military man about him in the way he carried himself, and the way he walked, and how he held his head when he stood, but Sherlock had always found it relatively easy to forget that he was a soldier. Or perhaps he was so used to it that the soldier aspect of John had blended into the background, and he was just John now.

Today, John was the most obvious soldier Sherlock had ever seen, and that included the guards outside the palace in their bright red coats and their bearskins. He wore the uniform as if it were the most natural thing in the world, rather than a starched, restrictive and stupidly decorated outfit draped around him.

It wasn't even just John who was behaving differently. As they'd left the flat, people on the street had turned their heads to look at the soldier as they had walked past. Some of the female passers-by had smiled in a certain way. One of the male ones had done so too. The taxi driver had pulled up sharply, ignored Sherlock entirely, but given John a nod and sat up straighter as they got in. He'd called John 'sir'. Not 'mate' or 'guv', but '_sir',_ and John hadn't even registered it.

Even Mrs Hudson had caught whatever this was, and Sherlock had expected better from her. She had simpered and cooed as she'd brushed an invisible speck of dust from the pristine uniform, and John had smiled patiently and accepted it.

"Perhaps I should go and get my clothes brush," she had said.

"There's nothing there!" Sherlock had snapped. "Stop being ridiculous! It's a suit, and not a particularly nice suit! There's far too much taupe there! Who thought of the stupid idea of having a taupe shirt and a taupe tie under a taupe suit! And if that's not bad enough, the red and blue hat clashes with it all, and the belt and that string thing are frankly ridiculous!"

John had given him something of an arched look.

"It is ridiculous," Sherlock had said.

"The suit marks me a soldier in the British army," John had answered. "The belt marks me as a doctor, and the _lanyard_ marks me as an officer. The hat marks me as both an officer and a doctor, and because this is a slightly more formal event, I've chosen this one over the beret. Everything about these clothes is used for identification."

Sherlock had pouted.

"Why don't you just say 'I'm Doctor Watson and I'm a Captain'? That would resolve all the things about the silly uniform."

"Because that's not amazingly practical when you're in a situation where there are hundreds of soldiers all together. This is quick and easy."

"I think you look marvellous, dear," Mrs Hudson had said. "I especially like the hat."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

She hadn't even noticed Sherlock's tie.

"Leave it alone," John said, bringing Sherlock back to the present.

Sherlock's finger had crept up to the knot of his hideous tie and was worrying away at it.

"It's too tight," he muttered.

"It's fine. It's not even flush against your collar button."

"It's restrictive."

"It's fine, leave it alone."

He turned away again and looked out the window. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was almost certain that John was sitting slightly more upright than usual. Even in the cab his back was straight, his head held high, and his feet were neatly together. Part of Sherlock's mind told him that John always sat in such a way, but another part of his mind rebelled against that. He found the conflict strange and unpleasant.

John turned to look at him.

"If it's bothering you this much, why don't you just pretend we're on a case, and that I need to wear this as a disguise."

"I'm not bothered by it!" Sherlock snapped.

He was bothered by it. He'd seen John dress up on a number of occasions, usually in a suit where necessary, though once as a traffic warden, and once as a gas man. Every time, he'd processed it as 'John dressed up'. He tried to do so now, but he failed. This wasn't John dressed up. This was John the soldier.

"It's just a uniform," John said.

"I know that."

"We're here."

The cab pulled over and they got out. As John paid for the cab, Sherlock looked at the marquee that had been erected in Parliament Gardens. There was a familiar weight in the pit of his stomach. He turned to John.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

"Because there was a moment when you thought it might be interesting and intriguing, and you're too bloody minded to pull out when you started getting uncomfortable about it all."

"Right."

He turned towards the park entrance.

"No, wait," John said, and he pulled his arm slightly.

Sherlock turned back to him.

"What?"

"Look at me for a moment, Sherlock."

"What do you mean? I've looked at you! You have been looked at! Like you say, it's just a uniform!"

"No, I mean look at me properly. You're fighting yourself and it's ridiculous. Just look, OK?"

Sherlock huffed for a moment, but then he did as he was told.

The uniform was a good fit. John hadn't gained weight since he'd worn it last. Sherlock frowned. He knew that wasn't right; John had lost weight. Not a huge amount, but he'd clearly gained it again. John was at about the same physical level that he had been when he'd been a soldier. He'd returned to form after his illness.

The suit was barely worn, and it had been bought new. It had been cleaned, ironed and starched and then brushed down several times, and told him little about John's past. He resented the fact that other soldiers could probably look at him and would understand John's entire military history.

The hat looked older. It was backed in a navy blue material with red piping around the top, and a broad red band around the middle. There was a well polished, brass badge in the middle of it. The stiff, black peak seemed to be made of plastic and it had also been polished. There was a tiny scratch in one corner, and an effort had been made to polish this away. Sherlock frowned. He noticed now that the hat was also a fraction too big. It was second hand. John's suit had been bought new, especially for him, but he had bought the hat second hand.

His eyes dropped down. There were tabs on John's shoulders with three diamonds, in which were small crosses. He knew enough to realise that these depicted John's rank. There were brass badges next to them, with the letters RAMC. He frowned again.

"RAMC? I thought you were in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Technically, I was in the Royal Army Medical Corps, but I was assigned as the Medical Officer to the 5th Northumberland. There will be people here from both, but the 5th Northumberland are quite clear that I belong to them."

"You're not a possession!"

"Really?" John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock frowned and his eye dropped to the medals. There wasn't a huge number there, just six ribbons, three of which held pendants. He shuffled his feet; conscious that he may have known what these stood for at one point, but he'd either deleted the memory, or filed it far away as irrelevant.

"These top two are campaign medals," John said, pointing out two of the bands. "This one Iraq, this one Afghanistan. This one here is your bog-standard General Service Medal." He pointed at it, and then he held up one of the pendants. It was a shiny silver coin on a green, purple and gold ribbon. "This is an Accumulated Service Medal, which I got simply for being away an awfully long time, and this one," he held up the silver cross on a white ribbon with a purple stripe running vertically through it, "is a Military Cross."

"What did you get that for?"

"Gallantry."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, but it was quickly clear that John wasn't going to elaborate.

Sherlock reached out and held up the final medal. It was a brass coin on a maroon ribbon with blue stripes at each side. He noticed John give a small smile as he did so, and he read the embossed words.

"Queen's Medal for Champion Shots?"

John grinned. "Yeah, that one's something of a joke between me and the boys. I was in the 5th Northumberland, and within that, I was usually grouped with the B Rifles when the companies needed an MO for whatever reason. There was a time when the B's and the A's were all holed up together, and we decided to pass the time with a shooting competition. Nothing fancy, but a couple of targets were set up, and it was good practice and so forth. Despite the B's being outstanding lads to the very last man, it was a dead heat. Before a riot broke out, Colonel Featherstone suggested that the tie break should be a shoot out between the MOs from both companies." He smiled at Sherlock. "Turn's out I'm a very good shot!"

"So you saved the day."

"Well, in a war-zone with people being attacked and bombed and screamed at left right and centre, sometimes the little things count. My lads like it when I wear the pendant. They like to remind people about how excellent I am. Are you OK now? Shall we go in?"

"Yes. I'm fine," he glanced at John. "Thank you."

"Prepare yourself for a lot of saluting. I know you think it's ridiculous, so it might be worth easing your mind into it now."


	3. Chapter 3

There was indeed a lot of saluting.

Sherlock followed John into the foyer of the marquee where they were met by a number of older, heavily decorated officers.

The first to pounce on them was a tall, angular man wearing the same red, blue and gold belt and the same RAMC shoulder badges as John. He had more things on his shoulder than John did, and Sherlock made a mental note to refresh his knowledge of rank insignia when they returned home. John gave a quick salute that was returned by the other officer. This was followed immediately by a handshake, which, in Sherlock's opinion rendered the salute pointless. He kept his council about this.

"Doctor Watson," the other person said. He was surprisingly softly spoken, and Sherlock quickly re-evaluated his preconceptions about senior military personnel. "Thank you so much for coming along! I know it's going to mean a great deal to the boys."

"You're welcome, Doctor Giddings, I'm glad to be here. Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Colonel Giddings of the RAMC, and ostensibly my boss."

"He is not!" someone bellowed in a more stereotypical, military voice. "I won't hear anything of the sort! That great pleasure goes to me!"

Sherlock watched as John calmly snapped out another salute, which was accepted by a portly, well-decorated, white-haired gentleman, who was struggling to suppress a grin.

He didn't struggle for long, as the salute came to an end, and he grasped John's hand in both of his own, shaking it warmly.

"Watson! Dear old Captain Watson! Pleased as punch to have you here with us. Pleased as punch I tell you."

John smiled back.

"Brigadier Featherstone, I'm happy to see you looking so well!"

The handshake continued.

"Marvellous stuff, Watson! Marvellous stuff!"

"Brigadier, please let me introduce my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm honoured and delighted to meet you!" Brigadier Featherstone said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and shaking it.

"Sir," Sherlock mumbled. He glanced at John and confirmed that John was inwardly sniggering at him. He tried to stand up straighter.

"Now, sir," Brigadier Featherstone bellowed, releasing him, "I have some business with Captain Watson to attend to."

John was amenably led to a third officer who had been standing close by and watching them.

John saluted again, and it was received by a man who appeared to be examining them both through heavy, dark eyebrows. Sherlock straightened his tie slightly. He felt that this man was indeed reading John's uniform, and then he realised, with a start, that John was reading the other uniform right back.

"Williams, this is that chap I was telling you about," Featherstone roared. "Captain Watson. Brilliant man. He's the one I thought you should introduce to your lady-friend and that other fellow you're dragging around with you."

If anyone other than Sherlock was surprised by this introduction, they hid it well.

John further surprised him by not speaking at all.

"Captain Watson, is it?" Williams said.

"Yes, Lieutenant General." John said. "Formerly of the RAMC, and assigned to the 5th Northumberland. Service 2000 to 2010."

Sherlock suddenly thought how wonderful it must be to have expected replies scripted for you.

"Good man. Heard a lot about you. And your friend?"

"Lieutenant General, please allow me to introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes, friend and colleague."

"I'm happy to meet you, sir." Lieutenant General Williams said, and he held out his hand.

"Thank you, sir," Sherlock said, shaking it.

"Captain Watson, I'm glad you made it out here today. We have some nice fun and games going on, of course, and also because your name has come to my attention. You see; I'm looking for someone for a pet project of mine. I'd like you to meet Dr Elizabeth Halliwell."

An attractive woman stepped forward, wearing a simple summer dress, and for a split second, Sherlock recognised Normal John as he looked at her. It was only for a moment though, before the military mask came down again.

John shook her hand politely.

"And this is the Director General, of course," Lieutenant General Williams said. "I don't know if you've had occasion to meet."

"Not as yet. I'm pleased to meet you, sir," John said, saluting.

"We haven't got long before the boats appear," Lieutenant General Williams said. "Let's have a quick chat now, why don't we? Captain Watson, let me get you a drink."

Sherlock watched in mild horror as John was calmly led away. He appeared to have been entirely forgotten.

There was suddenly an enormous, strong hand on his shoulder, and he turned to find Brigadier Featherstone smiling at him.

"They won't keep him for long," he said. "It's important, I assure you, and Captain Watson is such a bloody hard man to catch hold of."

"Yes," he said.

"Let me get you a drink and introduce you to some of the chaps. I don't imagine you'd be too impressed if I just sat you down with the wives."

"Thank you."

He was led to the bar at the back corner of the marquee. This took longer than he had hoped, as various people popped up to salute at Brigadier Featherstone, and, each time this happened, Featherstone had to stop and salute back. Featherstone didn't seem to mind the delays at all.

"Doesn't you arm get tired?" Sherlock asked as the reached the bar.

"What, what? Oh that! No. Been in the army since I was eighteen, sir, and it becomes as natural as breathing. I'm sure we all keep our elbows well oiled. What can I get for you to drink, sir?"

Sherlock ordered a beer and glanced around.

He noticed that John was sitting at a table with Lieutenant General Williams, the Director General and Doctor Halliwell. Doctor Halliwell appeared to be talking quickly and earnestly about something, and Lieutenant General Williams was frowning and nodding along with her. John seemed entirely at ease, and was listening intently.

"I expect some of the younger chaps might have wandered out for the air, shall we go and see?"

Sherlock nodded and followed him outside. There was a covered gazebo alongside the dining marquee, and there were pockets of servicemen sitting relaxed on garden chairs. Sherlock noted that there wasn't a great deal of mingling between the different types of uniform.

Brigadier Featherstone guided him to a group in Army uniform who had pulled chairs out into the May sunshine and were revelling in the first real heat of the year. He was embarrassed when they all leapt up to salute. He particularly felt for one soldier who held a cheap looking prosthetic hand to his forehead, and for another who was struggling to his feet with a crutch and a prosthetic leg. Nobody else commented or spoke during the time that this took, and Brigadier Featherstone waited patiently until the young man was upright and had saluted, and he returned the salute with a smile.

"Sit down again, all of you. God knows I'd be sitting down in the sun if I weren't on the greeting committee. I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes. He's a friend of Captain Watson's."

A couple of faces took note of this news, and Sherlock thought that John's blog might have a high proportion of readers from the armed forces.

"Is the Captain here, sir?" the soldier with the crutches asked.

"He is, Voss, he is!"

This news was met with broad grins.

"I'm awfully sorry, I must dash," Brigadier Featherstone said. "Blasted official duties, you understand. These fellows are the people you want if you want stories about Captain Watson."

Sherlock nodded a goodbye, and pulled a chair up to join them. He was very conscious of six, curious stares looking at him. He smiled and nodded once and stared at a tree. He was painfully aware that the conversation had died as soon as he'd joined them. He took out a packet of cigarettes, opened it, and held it out.

The five men instantly leaned forwards to take one, and there was a muttered chorus of thanks.

"Th… th… th… th…" one of them started.

The remaining woman sat back in her chair.

"I hate you all," she said.

Sherlock glanced at her.

"Yes," he said. "I had to give up too."

"It looks like you've done an excellent job," she said, raising her eyebrows at the packet in his hand.

"These? Oh, these are just in case I'm the only civilian in a group of soldiers, and I need to break the ice somehow." He put the box away.

She smiled at him briefly and then looked away.

"Th… thank… you."

"You're welcome," Sherlock said.

"I've read the captain's blog," the soldier identified as Voss said. "It's brilliant!"

There were several other nods and smiles of agreements.

"It's the semi-literate ramblings of a bored and untidy mind," Sherlock said.

There were more grins.

"Yeah, but it's brilliant, though!" Voss said.

Sherlock smiled.

"So, I understand there's some kind of race going on," he said. "Any tips on the winner?"

"Army," five voices chorused. The man with the stutter nodded vigorously.

"Got some good men on the team, have you?"

"Better than the fliers, anyhow," the woman said.

"Wo… wo… woo…" The man beside Voss started. Eventually he gave up and patted Voss's leg. He took a long pull on his cigarette.

"Ah, they'll do fine without me and you know it," Voss said.

The man shrugged.

"You've got to be fair, Chambers," the woman said. "Roseberry's a damned good rower, and it's not his fault that Voss couldn't go." She glanced at Sherlock, leaned forward and stuck her hand out for him to shake. "I'm Pritchard, that's Voss and Chambers, and those are Compton, Smith and Fielding. You should smoke if you want, I can see you're gagging for it."

"I will, thank you." Sherlock took his box out again, lit a cigarette, and took a long pull. "Do you have a book going?"

Compton started to speak, but Smith quietened him. Compton glanced at Sherlock.

"You won't tell Captain Watson, will you?"

"No, I barely tell him anything."

"Smith has the book, then."

Sherlock glanced at Smith.

"I'll put a tenner on the Army."

"No, you can't. We're betting on second place. Who will you have? Navy or RAF?"

Sherlock smiled and glanced around at some of the other groups.

"I can't help but feel that the Navy have a natural advantage in this," he said. "So I'll put my money on the Air Force. They'll have more to prove." He handed a ten-pound note across. Smith took it with his left hand and pocketed it.

He looked around at them all again. He could identify four sets of injuries between them. Along with the missing arm from Smith, and leg from Voss, Chambers had burn scars on his left hand that seemed to extend a long way up his arm, and there were more on his neck and chin. Fielding was missing an eye and had several scars running through his closely cropped hair. Compton and Pritchard were strangely illusive to him though. He wondered if they'd sustained internal injuries, but it seemed impolite to ask.

"I wonder if one of you could help me with something," he said. Six pairs of eyes looked at him suspiciously. "John… _Captain Watson_ has a Military Cross. I was wondering if you could tell me what he got it for."

"Gallantry," Smith and Fielding chorused.

"I see," Sherlock said. "I was rather hoping for specifics."

Pritchard grinned at him.

"Chambers was there," she said. "Most of us just heard about it afterwards, but Chambers saw it all."

Chambers nodded for a while, and his face took on a wistful look, as if he were watching it all happen again. Sherlock deeply regretted asking.

"It's not what you think," Voss said. "Chamber's here got his Cross on the same day. They were together, see, along with a couple of others. There was a journo, see, and he'd gone and got himself kidnapped by very cleverly palling up with a group of guerrillas up in this tiny village in the lowlands. Anyhow, we got intell about, this is where he was, and it was a bit tricky, see, 'cos if you get a 'come and get him', message, you've got to ask why they want you there, but it was also a bit time sensitive. Anyhow, Major Bailey and Colonel Featherstone, he's the Brigadier now, see, well they didn't like it one bit, but they didn't like leaving the civvie up there either, so they asked for volunteers for recon, and that's when Chambers went up there. That right, Chambers?"

"Yup," Chambers nodded.

"You went back on the main op though, didn't you?" Smith asked.

"Yuh… yep."

"That's when Captain Watson went up," Smith said. "The recon came back, and Bailey thought it looked OK, and he asked for volunteers."

"And Jo... Captain Watson does so like to volunteer," Sherlock said.

There were grins and nods all around.

"They went up in the evening," Smith said. "Chambers went back, and two others, and Watson. Watson had argued pretty hard that this guy might not be in the best physical shape, and insisted that immediate treatment would be necessary. He hung back as long as he could, but there was a fire fight so he shot down a couple of snipers, then ran into the square to help carry this journo out. Turned out he was a bloody Yank."

"I don't think that Captain Watson minded, though," Compton said.

"Or anyone," Pritchard said.

"Fu… fu… fu… kin' terri…fying."

"Well, yeah," Voss said. "I mean, it was obviously well scary, but even you'd have volunteered anyway, even if you'd have known before hand he was American."

"Yep."

"And you got decorated for it?" Sherlock said.

"Yup." Chambers smiled.

"Seems a bit daft, really," Voss said, "when you think that all Watson got for the other thing was a hole, and a ticket home."

Behind them a throat was cleared, and the six soldiers all leapt up as quickly as they could individually manage. Smart salutes were shot out.

Sherlock leant back and glanced up at John, who was standing smartly to attention and saluting back.

"Sit down," he instructed.

Six grinning soldiers sat down again, and John pulled up his own chair.


	4. Chapter 4

John sat down, took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair.

"OK?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"What? Oh, yeah. Fine." He replaced his hat. "Give me the cigarettes."

"I wasn't smoking! I was just offering them around!"

"Give me the cigarettes." John held his hand out for them.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. John held his hand a little higher. Sherlock sighed, took the box out and put it into John's hand.

"Thank you," John said. "Nobody gives him any more, understood?"

There were grins and ashamed mutters of agreement.

"It was my fault, sir," Pritchard said. "I goaded him into it."

"That doesn't sound very likely." John smiled at her. "Are you keeping well, Corporal?"

"Well enough, sir."

"Doctor Abrahams is treating you well, I hope?"

"He is, sir."

"Glad to hear it." John smiled warmly at the group. "Does anyone know what Sherlock's done with his tie?" he asked.

Sherlock's hand went to his neck, and, sure enough, at some point he'd removed his tie and opened his collar button.

"It's in his coat pocket, sir" Fielding said. "Left hand side."

"In fairness, it is bloody hot, sir," Voss said.

"The rest of us manage to keep standards up, I note," John said. "Voss, could you explain to me why you're not in a wheelchair?"

"That? You ask me that, sir? That's well unfair! You could ask me why I'm not in the bloody boat!"

"You're not in the bloody boat because you're in bloody pain," John said, and he took a drink of his beer. "You're in bloody pain because it's bloody chaffed again, and you've ignored it, and now it's bloody infected."

Voss's chin sunk to his chest.

"I just wanted today, sir," he muttered.

"I know," John said, quietly. "I wish you'd let me speak to someone about getting it reassessed. It's clearly not a good fit."

"It does OK."

"Well keep an eye on it, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You need to tell Doctor Hampton about every mark and rub and infection. Not just the ones he notices on his own."

"Yes, sir."

John glanced around at the rest of the group, assessing them quietly, and nodding and smiling at them.

"Have you got a book going, Corporal Smith?" he asked.

"No, sir!" five voices chorused at him.

"Fine. Nice. Good to know where your loyalty is."

"Sorry, sir," Smith said. "You know how it is though."

"It's for your own good," Compton said.

"I know, I know." He smiled again. "I bet you let Sherlock bet, didn't you?"

"No, sir," was quietly muttered by various people.

"Who did you take," John asked, looking at Sherlock. "RAF or Navy?"

"Air Force," Sherlock said.

"Well you're a sucker," John returned. "Corporal Chambers, family well?"

"Yep… sir."

"There was a daughter, wasn't there? I'm fairly sure there was a daughter."

"Yep… t… t… two now."

"Then there must be more pictures. Let's have a look."

Chambers blushed and dug a small photo-book from his pocket. John smiled as he looked through it.

"You're a lucky bastard, Chambers."

"Yep."

"And they don't look a bit like you, which is lucky too."

"Yep." Chambers grinned again, and put the book back into his pocket.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lieutenant General Williams shouted from the entrance of the marquee. "I've just had word that the boats are just a mile away now. I'm sure you'd all like to make your way to the platforms to watch our boys come in. Apparently they have raised over fifty-thousand pounds in sponsorship, so I think that they are worthy of a great deal of noise."

A loud roar greeted this news, and people started standing up. Chambers helped Voss to his feet, and was going to go with the group, but John held him back slightly. He saluted him, and Sherlock was surprised to see that Chambers was both surprised and flattered by this. He received the salute.

"Corporal, I just wanted to say well done on your VC," John said. Corporal Chambers flushed. "It was well earned, and you should wear the pendant, not just the ribbon. Well done."

Chambers nodded and blinked furiously. John shook his hand, nodded and turned away, letting Chambers escape.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Captain," Doctor Giddings said. "I was rather hoping that you'd join us down at the landing dock."

"Thank you, Colonel. I was hoping to watch with the boys, though."

"Captain! Captain Watson," Brigadier Featherstone said, swooping on them. "Of course, you _must_ join us down on the landing dock, won't you? I know that Churchill's hoping you might, and the other boys would love to see you too!"

John smiled. "Of course, sir. I'd love to."

Sherlock watched as John was led away again.

"Most army wives get used to it," Corporal Pritchard said at his shoulder. "Sometimes duty calls and you just have to answer."

"He's not a soldier any more though," Sherlock grumbled. "He doesn't get ordered by anyone."

"No, but the etiquette gets quite ingrained. Some people like it." She shrugged. "The bar will be quiet now. Do you want another drink?"

"Don't you want to watch the boats?"

"No. I will do though, but we'll hear when they start getting close."

Sherlock nodded and followed her to the bar. They sat down together at one of the large tables and were frowned at by waiting staff laying out silver cutlery.

"They want to get ready for the Ruperts," Pritchard said. "You'll probably be down here though. I'll be with the cannon-fodder at the back. We'll be on the bench tables with the less valuable cutlery."

"They're not all that bad, are they?"

"No, I suppose not." She sighed deeply. "Featherstone's a rock, though I think he's getting a bit dappy now. He was great overseas, apparently, when he was still a Colonel. I only crossed over with him for a couple of months. He ran a tight ship, but he did good for his men. That's all that you want really."

Sherlock nodded.

"It was breast cancer," Pritchard said suddenly. "I could see you wondering. I got breast-cancer and was sent home for treatment. It's been two years. It turns out that not all invalided soldiers have brilliant and heroic war-stories."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He surprised himself by actually being sorry.

"Mm. It's nearly done now. I've got another month of recuperation, and then I'll be back to active service in July."

"You'll go back?"

"Yeah. Of course!"

"Sorry. It surprises me, that's all."

"You mean because I should have got a new healthy respect for life and all that?" She smiled. "I'm a soldier, Mr Holmes. It is my life, it's what I do. The cancer has been a pain in the arse, but I'm not going to let it stop me living the life I want to live."

Sherlock sat back and regarded her.

Pritchard glanced up and suddenly looked amused. "Bloody hell," she muttered.

Sherlock frowned, and he turned around to find another soldier running in through the marquee.

"Am I late?" he asked, panting. "Oh! Hello, Corporal Pritchard! How are you? Am I late?"

"You'll be late for your own bloody funeral, Murray. The boats aren't back yet. Have you met Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh!" Murray squealed. "Really? Mr Holmes, hello! Hello! Big fan! I'm a huge fan!"

Sherlock found himself smiling despite himself, and he stood up to shake Murray's hand.

"That means Captain Watson must be here too!" Murray said. "Oh, marvellous! I've been wanting to catch up properly for weeks!"

Sherlock glanced over Murray. Other than being flushed and slightly out of breath he noted that he had a tan, and it hadn't started to fade much yet. He'd assumed he'd been in the country just a few weeks. As well as that, there was a small smear of shoe polish on his inner left ankle, one of his shoelaces had snapped and been tied with a knot half way along, and his beret had been put on hurriedly, and the badge wasn't correctly aligned over his eye.

Pritchard reached up and straightened it for him. She also re-buttoned his open pocket.

"Thanks, Kate," he said, and blushed. "Pritchard! Corporal!"

"Let's go and see the boats arrive," she said.

She turned and headed back outside. Sherlock smiled at Murray and gestured that he should follow.

The crowds were pretty thick at the wall overlooking the river, and although Pritchard had worked her way back to the rest of the group, Murray looked fit to drop. He sat down on a garden chair and Sherlock sat next to him.

"Bloody Tubes," Murray said. "They always look so close together, and then it turns out you have to walk miles underground to change lines. It's a nightmare."

"You get used to it," Sherlock said. "Or you give up and use cabs."

"Yeah, I'm an Army nurse; I don't get paid enough for cabs." He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed his face with it. "Captain Watson is here, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's down with the bigwigs."

"Good. Is he keeping well?"

"Yes, we're very well looked after. I suspect you'll see for yourself in half an hour."

"Good. I'm pleased." He looked at Sherlock for a moment. "Is he… do you mind if… can I ask…?"

Sherlock frowned, and Murray blushed again.

"I just wondered if he looked likely to come back."

"Back where?"

"Back back. Back to the Army."

Sherlock frowned. The idea of John returning to the military hadn't crossed his mind at all. He glanced around now and absorbed the structure and the friendship, and he realised at once why John had felt so lost and alone when he was suddenly back in London.

"I mean, we all wondered if he would one day. His injury… well I don't mean to make light of his injury, and of course he's not obligated… but he could come back. He's able bodied. I think we all hoped when he sorted out…" he blushed more deeply. "Sorry, I shouldn't talk about that at all! But I mean…" he sighed. "He was a loss to us. That's what I mean."

"Yes. Yes I understand."

"He's a bloody brilliant doctor! Did you meet Smith? The one with the arm? That was bloody brilliant, if you ask me. I mean, the guy lost an arm, but rightly it should have come off at the shoulder, and Watson saved that. He's got a whole working elbow because of Captain Watson. They all knew too! I was up at the mobile unit that day, working with him, and the shelling was getting closer and closer and we really needed to pitch out, but Watson kept going and binding and stitching like the clappers, checking each _nerve_, I ask you! We were the last ones out, me and Smith there on the stretcher, and we all piled in the ambulance, and then Watson closed the door of the medic station, still in his scrubs and leapt in the back of the ambulance too. He told me he was sorry, and he wouldn't allow me to wait again in such conditions, but I could tell he was totally focused on the work. I honestly don't think he'd noticed the bombs going off."

Murray sat back and shook his head.

"They all knew it was him too. We were dropped off at the next base down to finish our week, but Smith was taken over to the big hospital. They called us and gave Watson a right bollocking. Said they'd recognised his handiwork from the particularly neat stitching and from the fact that someone had fannied around saving an arm when they should have been pitching the hell out."

"What happened to him? To Captain Watson, I mean."

"He was officially reprimanded, I know that."

"For saving a man's arm?"

"Yes. The Army is the Army and you do what you're told. Doctors are told; 'save the men first and the limbs second', and Watson had risked three people to save one person's arm. It seems cruel, but it's practical really."

"So why did he do it?"

"Because he knew he could save the arm, of course, and because he thinks that it's better to save as much of the person as possible. He thought that Smith would probably get a decent prosthetic if he could save the elbow. He wasn't wrong. Anyway, the evening after he got his reprimand, Smith's messmates took him out for an evening. Taylor made him a picture out of Cyprus wood. It's not much, but we didn't have a whole heap to hand."

"He's still got it. I've seen it."

"Well that's nice. You can't always tell whether Watson cares, I find."

"Yes, you can."

"Well maybe you can."

The crowd in front of them started yelling more loudly.

"I think they must be nearly here," Murray said. He went to the back of the group and stood on tiptoes but it was clear that he'd never be able to see.

Sherlock pulled one of the garden chairs forward, and stood on it, and Murray quickly copied. Over the heads of the crowd, Sherlock could see the three boats, each holding eight rowers and a cox, as they battled towards the finish line. The Army and Navy boats were pretty much neck and neck, and the RAF was about a boat's length behind. He turned his attention to the landing platform, and could just make out John, relaxed and smiling with his Army colleagues.

Sherlock dug in his pocket for his tie and he folded his collar up to put it back on.


	5. Chapter 5

The Navy boat beat the Army by half a foot. The RAF trailed behind. There were cheers and groans up and down the riverbank, but they were quickly turned into cheers as beer was dispensed along the line.

Sherlock remained stood on his chair for a while watching John. He was helping people out of boats, shaking hands, taking salutes and generally laughing with his friends.

He suddenly realised he looked ridiculous, standing on a chair in the middle of the milling crowd. He got down again and went to stand at the wall. He looked out at London and was soothed by its familiarity.

"Are you OK?" John asked, appearing at his side.

"Yes, I'm fine. I've been getting to know your friends."

"Jolly good. Sorry you lost your money."

"It's fine. What did they want to talk to you…."

"Captain! Captain Watson!"

There was Murray again, flushed and looking delighted. He shook John's hand. Pritchard was just behind him and she cleared her throat, loudly.

"Oh shit! Sorry!" Murray said, and he stood sharply to attention and gave a salute.

John received it.

"It's fine, Lance Corporal, I'm a civilian now, remember."

"Yeah, but still…" Murray said.

"You'll never make full Corporal if you keep forgetting," Pritchard murmured, and Murray flushed again.

"How long are you back for?" John asked. "We should go out."

"Yes we should! I've got another six weeks! I'll probably fly back out on the same plane as Kate! Corporal Pritchard!"

"Honestly, Murray, you really are hopeless," Pritchard said.

"You're a damned good nurse," John said. "In my book that counts for rather a lot more." Murray smiled, and Sherlock thought that Pritchard looked almost proud. "Brigadier Featherstone is about, though, so it might be prudent to see if you can wipe off whatever it is you've brushed your sleeve in there."

Murray looked down and cursed. He pulled his handkerchief out again and started wiping at his sleeve.

"You're OK, Murray," John said, slapping his arm. He glanced at Sherlock. "Are you OK? Do you need another drink or anything?"

"I'm fine."

"If you want to duck out of the dinner, I can make excuses."

"No, Captain, you have to be here," Murray said. Sherlock noticed Pritchard kicking him on the ankle, very gently, and Murray stopped talking and just smiled.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I'm looking forward to it." He smiled.

John nodded at him.

"Murray, email me about drinks," he said. "I mean it, and I promise I'll get my act together and come out. Could you excuse us now?"

He stepped away and headed towards the bar. Sherlock followed him. They sat down in the cool of the marquee for a moment.

"We're on table three," Sherlock said. "I checked before we came in."

"Good. Thanks." John sat back and closed his eyes.

"They want you back, don't they?"

"Yes." John sat still for a moment, and then looked at Sherlock. "That was only half the chat though. They want me back, which is fairly astonishing at the moment, what with all the cuts. They know they can't have me back, though." Sherlock smiled. "Not out to a proper regiment again, anyway, so they offered something else. A lot of the medical services are being combined and scaled down a bit. In some ways it's a good thing, I'm all for efficiency, and it makes sense to share resources, but the thing that they're going to really struggle with is the rehabilitation services. It's stupid, because all the research, _all_ of it says that it's so beneficial to the guys coming back, even if they're not injured. They're looking to start something new, a mixed services complex, working with the NHS and Help for Heroes and some of the other charities, and they've got all the plans laid out. What they're hoping for is a proper half military, half civilian place, properly manned by both armed services personnel and with regular doctors and nurses and therapists."

John sighed.

"They've offered you a full time job?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm."

"What else?"

"Well just that, really, but it'd be pretty senior. They've said if I go back in as an officer, I'll get a rank up, and if I go in as a civilian, I'll be doing the same job for the same money. It'd be entirely up to me."

Sherlock looked around the marquee. Various other people were starting to file in and look for their place settings.

"We should probably find our table," he said.

"Mm." They stood and wandered over to table three. They settled back down again, and John poured himself a glass of water. "What do you think I should do?" John asked.

"Well obviously you haven't got time because you're working for me now."

"With you."

"That too." Sherlock looked across at John. "You want to do it, though."

"Yes I do. Right now I certainly do. I have to admit, this morning when I was putting the uniform on again, I had a moment of thinking how glad I was that I don't have to do this anymore. And that was immediately followed by thinking how much I miss it. So being here with these people, who I can properly help and serve, and who are properly grateful and appreciative of that help… well, sometimes I miss it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"I do appreciate you."

"What? Oh, yeah, I mean I know. I do know that, I'm not comparing. I'm just saying; the people here need me. You don't need me."

"That's not true!"

"No, you don't."

"Yes I do! You're very… you're very helpful to me."

John smiled. "It's fine, Sherlock. You're clearly the indispensable part of our operation, and I'm not bothered by that at all. You did fine before me, and you'd do fine after me. I'm a luxury to you, and I think that you know that."

A waitress brought bottles of wine to the table, and Sherlock reached for the red. He filled his glass and took a long drink.

"It's something to think about, anyway," John said, watching him. He took his hat off and placed it carefully underneath his chair. "They don't need an answer right away."

More people came to the table, and John spent the next few minutes leaping up to salute others, or to receive their salutes.

The table was large, and it restricted conversation to all but your immediate neighbours. Sherlock was relieved, and he couldn't help but think that John was too. The food was good, though, and most of the attention was focussed on it. After the starters there was a sudden burst of applause, and some of the men from the boats, cleaned and well dressed, were ushered in to join them.

Sherlock took advantage of the delay between the main course and dessert, and he turned to John.

"What did Chambers get his VC for? Do you know?"

"Yes, I was one of the witnesses to the event. I mean I was formally a witness. I had to write a report about it." John cleared his throat and stared into the distance for a while. "It was a bit of a shame in the end. The scarring and the head stuff all came from that. We were trapped in a house in the middle of a town, and the storm blew up so suddenly that day. I know questions were asked about it, because the intelligence had fully let us down. So we were there, and the guys were doing their job perfectly, but it turned bad very quickly. We were in the courtyard of this house, Chambers and me, not a big space, but we were just outside having a look around when the house was hit. It burned. You expect dust, and there was dust, but there was also fire. From the smell of it, I'm pretty sure they'd got hold of some napalm.

Sherlock swore quietly.

"It's something of an occupational hazard," John said. "Anyhow, there were four others still inside, we could see King, so we got him out pretty fast, and he was brilliant enough to keep hold of his weapon, even though he had a broken leg. Chambers went back in and came out with Fielding, who you met. He was unconscious, so I was treating both of them in this courtyard. The house was burning pretty bad, and Chambers went in again. He came out choking and hardly breathing, and he told me Evans was dead. He was freaking out by then, and he wanted me to go and check. I tried to get him to settle in the courtyard, but he was convinced that he had heard Sanderson screaming, so he upped and went in again. He found Sanderson, and pulled him out of the wreckage. Sanderson was just about breathing but pretty far gone, and Chambers was on fire. We got the flames out and he was still buzzing and stressed out of his head about Sanderson. So there we all were. Four major injuries, a corpse and me. Suddenly there was a guy up on the wall, looking down at us. He shot Sanderson first, and killed him straight out. I think he was aiming for Chambers. We got lucky, that day, that he was such a bad soldier. Chambers used himself as a shield and leapt on Fielding. King took a shot at the gunman but was shot and killed. I abandoned him and moved to Fielding, and took a bullet to the back. Chambers shot the sniper."

John took a long drink of his wine.

"Fielding, Chambers and I all got out. Both Fielding and I owe our life to Chambers, and I made bloody sure that he got his VC for it. Technically we needed another witness. There was me and Fielding, who was conveniently conscious for some of it, but it miraculously turned out that Major Hennings was just next-door and he witnessed the entire thing while engaging on his own manoeuvre. He saw Chambers going back in and back in bringing his team-mates out alive. It was astonishing." He glanced at Sherlock. "His rehabilitation is going slowly. It's moving, but it's going very slowly. As far as I'm aware, that was the last time Chambers discharged his weapon. The shot that saved me."

Sherlock looked up. He was suddenly aware that everyone at the table was watching John, and hanging on his every word. John appeared to be daydreaming entirely, and Sherlock wished that he'd chosen a slightly more appropriate moment to ask the question.

He was saved by the waitress. John snapped out of his memory and smiled.

"Oh! Dessert!" he said.


	6. Chapter 6

The meal finished, and their attention was drawn to the front of the marquee where there was a small stage area. Lieutenant General Williams stood up and thanked everybody for their attendance. He honoured the men from the boats and there were loud cheers for them and the support teams.

He briefly outlined the plans for the rehabilitation centre. Sherlock found his attention drifting.

"Doctor Watson told you about the event then," a quiet voice said into his ear. He turned slightly and saw that Colonel Giddings had pulled up a chair to join him. John was still listening to Lieutenant General Williams, so Sherlock nodded slightly.

"I imagine he told you the toned down version," Colonel Giddings said. "That's the one everybody gets." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He probably didn't tell you that he should never have been in the bloody house in the first place. They'd had some intelligence that day, and they knew there was going to be a problem. They weren't prepared for the scale, or for some of the weaponry used, but there was some expectation of trouble. Watson was on alert at the field hospital, waiting for casualties, but he's never been much of a one for waiting."

Sherlock smiled and Major Giddings broke off so that they could join in the sudden applause that was happening.

"He'd got a call," Major Giddings went on quietly, when the hubbub had died down. "Chambers had called him. There was a problem with one of the people in his platoon, Evans, his name was. I don't know what it was, but from his reputation I would imagine a heady mix of panic and alcohol. From what Chambers told me since, he'd been threatening to kill himself. I don't know how real the threats were, but Corporal Chambers took them seriously. So Chambers called Watson, and Watson bloody went onto the battlefield to see what was going on."

Sherlock frowned.

"It was reckless, to be sure," Major Giddings said, "but you have to understand what someone like that does to the platoon. Watson didn't view it as going in to sort out the drunk. He viewed it as going in to save the other four. It could have been, and should have been, a half hour job to remove the man, and leave the others to get on with their jobs, but the storm happened so very fast. Oh! The rowers are getting a presentation. I'm pleased! They've done so very well!"

Colonel Giddings applauded warmly, and Sherlock joined in. John glanced at him with a smile, and he nodded back.

"So there you have it. Watson went into the field to deal with a problem that had to be dealt with. He got caught out, but he stayed, and he did his job, and he worked bloody hard to save Chambers and the others, and he kept going after he got shot too. Eventually they were relieved by another platoon, and, by all accounts, Captain Watson waited until that moment to pass out. It was a friend of mine, Henry Callister, who found him. Apparently Watson said; 'marvellous, we have third degree burns and a head trauma, excuse me a moment'. And then he pitched forwards and revealed this whacking great hole in his shoulder. He came round at the mobile unit, leapt up immediately and apologised profusely for sleeping on the job, and then he fainted again."

Sherlock smiled.

"Yes. That story made the rounds too. He's a good man, an excellent soldier and a brilliant doctor. He's a sad loss to both professions." He glanced over at John. "I think he's having more fun now, though. I know about the offer that's been made to him, but I don't approve. He's a loss to us, but he deserves his own life now and we have no right to ask him to abandon it."

Sherlock found that he very much agreed.

"It always bothered me that we couldn't show more gratitude," Colonel Giddings said. "It certainly bothered Chambers. Chambers maintains that he didn't go back into the house alone. He claims that he was accompanied. Watson maintains that he didn't leave his casualties, and to be entirely honest, I'm fairly sure that Watson wouldn't. I think it's possible that he did go back in after Chambers though, if he thought that Chambers' life was at more risk than King's or Fielding's. It is possible that he got Chambers out of the house at the last. Chambers has always blamed himself for it all, poor man. Fielding is extremely grateful to both. I'm glad that Watson's here. We hope that we might be able to redress the balance tonight."

He nodded towards the stage where Brigadier Featherstone was taking the floor.

"Thank you, Lieutenant General, sir," Featherstone said. "I want to reiterate the warm thanks to everyone who came this afternoon. Jolly good show, chaps! Jolly good. I think that all of us welcome the plans that Lieutenant General Williams has outlined here. I think that there are a number of people who are grateful for all that the current recuperation services have offered to them, and I know we all feel an element of concern that these things might not be available to our fellow soldiers in their hours of need."

There was a ripple of consenting applause.

"I have been allowed to take the stand to close tonight," Brigadier Featherstone said, "Because there is an important announcement from the 5th Northumberland, and it's my pleasure to lead that regiment at the moment. Gentlemen, we have been awarded another Victoria Cross!"

There was loud cheering and stamping of feet. Sherlock was almost certain he heard a crutch being banged on a tabletop from somewhere at the back of the hall.

"Settle down, chaps, settle down!" Featherstone roared. "I sympathise completely with you all. This one has been a particularly long wait. They're tricky damned things, you see. Even after you've gathered together the individual reports from your three official witnesses, and approved it with the direct superior, and you've filed the paperwork in triplicate, and the committee have reviewed it, you go and get the bloody response; 'what the bloody hell was he doing there in the first place?'"

There was a roar of laughter and hoots from the back.

"And the bloody silly thing is, that everybody who knows the man, knows that he wouldn't be bloody anywhere that he doesn't bloody well need to be!"

There was more laughter, and Featherstone looked mildly embarrassed for a moment.

"I'm sorry, I've just got the signal from my lovely wife that I need to watch my language. I do apologise, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps I should just get on with it, yes?"

There was another loud roar from the back of the marquee.

"I have here the invitation for Captain John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps to attend Buckingham Palace on the event of the Queen's birthday, where he shall be awarded the Victoria Cross for his outstanding act of bravery in Afghanistan in 2009, without which two of his fellow soldiers would certainly have died. Captain Watson, please."

Sherlock joined in the applause, and he glanced at John. John was clearly both shaken and surprised, but he calmly gathered his hat from under his chair, and walked calmly to Brigadier Featherstone. He snapped out a salute, and took the plain white envelope. The applause was deafening, and there were definitely at least two crutches being beaten on tabletops. Most people were standing by now, and Sherlock joined them.

John turned towards the crowd, and for a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was going to make a speech. Featherstone certainly indicated that he could, but John simply saluted again, and returned to his seat. He put the envelope on the table, and stared at it for a while.

oOo

Sherlock had waited reasonably patiently while John had toured the marquee, receiving salutes and shaking people's hands. To a trained eye, it might look as though John was running out of patience himself, but he held his cool, and spoke to everybody in the queue.

He looked exhausted by the time he reached Sherlock, close to the entrance.

"Beat a hasty retreat?" Sherlock asked.

"God, yes," John answered. He immediately walked out of the marquee without another word.

Sherlock followed him to the main road where they hailed a cab and virtually fell in. John sat neatly again; head high, back straight, eyes forward. The white envelope rested on his lap. He didn't say a word until they were back at Baker Street.

"Dibs on the first shower," he said while Sherlock unlocked.

"Fair enough."

"Are you two back then?" Mrs Hudson asked, coming out of her flat to greet them.

"We appear to be, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said. "John's getting a Victoria Cross!"

"Christ, Sherlock!" John muttered, before Mrs Hudson pulled him into a hug.

"Oh, John! How wonderful! I always thought you should have one! Shall I make you two some tea?"

"I was heading straight for the brandy," John said pulling away. "I have to shower first though, or the sod will pinch all the hot water."

He marched upstairs and dropped his hat and the envelope onto the sofa. He hurried to the bathroom and locked himself inside.

Sherlock came into the living room and picked up the envelope. John hadn't opened it yet, and for a moment he wondered whether he should. He thought better of it, but placed it ceremoniously on the mantelpiece. He looked at himself in the mirror.

Ten minutes later, John found him still looking in the mirror, now wearing John's hat, and with his right hand raised to his forehead.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked.

"Christ! John! Don't sneak up like that!"

"I didn't sneak; I walked normally. You're saluting yourself?"

"No! I'm just seeing what it looks like!"

John grinned. "Well that was a bloody awful salute! Your hand faces outwards. Come on now, you saw a million of these today, surely you picked up on it! Hand firm, to your temple, not your forehead, facing out, not down, you're not watching for planes! Head up, shoulders down, feet together. Come on, man, do it like you mean it!"

Sherlock found himself obeying. When he'd got it right, John put his own hand up into a brief salute, and they both dropped their hands.

"Well that was ridiculous," Sherlock said.

John grinned and grabbed the hat from his head.

"It works for us."

"Us?"

"Them. The Army. They quite like it." He slumped down onto his armchair where there was a large brandy waiting for him. "Thanks," he said and sipped it.

Sherlock sat down opposite him.

"So, a Victoria Cross."

John winced. "Can we talk about something else please?"

"You don't want it?"

John sighed. "I don't think I deserve it. I was just doing my job. I just picked up the phone, and I went where I was needed, that was all."

"But Chambers deserves his?"

"Yes."

"And he couldn't have done what he did without you being there."

"Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Fine. Do you think you'll take the job?"

"Sherlock!"

"It's another subject."

John sighed again. "I don't know. I think probably not. It's a different lifetime now. It's a different world, and a different John Watson." He stared at the envelope on the fireplace for a while. "Arguably, I've already done my bit. It is a good idea though."

"You'd be good at it."

"Obviously." He stared some more. "I think what I'll probably do is volunteer my time. I think I could handle that, if I was there every now and again, and on my terms. I'll agree to be on their steering and management committees if they want me to as well. But I don't think I could do more than that. Not at the moment."

He stared at the fireplace and drank some of his brandy.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You're going to be horribly bad tempered for the next couple of weeks, aren't you?"

"Yep. Probably. Deal with it."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine! I'll call Lestrade in the morning, and beg him for a case."

John smiled. "Thanks. That'll probably do it. Right, I'm going to bed now. I'd be extremely grateful if you could be reasonably quiet tonight."

Sherlock nodded.

"John?" he called, when John had reached the door.

John turned around to look at him.

"I just thought, with the ceremony at the Palace, you'd probably be expected to take a guest. If you can't find anyone else, you should know that I'd be happy to stand in. I've even got a tie that I could wear."

John smiled and nodded.

"OK, thanks. I'll bear that in mind."

Sherlock smiled and watched him climb the stairs. He picked up a book and waited for the nightmares to start.

* * *

**A couple of quick notes - we've taken the same liberties with the 5th Northumberland that the Sherlock series have (it doesn't exist any more, fact-fans). The procedures for the VC are as we've outlined here, though I have no idea if anyone in the army would take the liberties with the witnesses that John did for Chambers. We didn't investigate the rehabilitation services for ex-servicemen, and I took the liberty of suggesting a joint services and joint NHS facility. I have no idea if it already exists that way, but I suspect it does.**

**I also took some liberties with Sherlock's knowledge of medals for this fic. I know he knows them better than that!**

**Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Pip (and HOS70)**


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